


Tony Stark's Collectibles

by pprfaith



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Author sucks at titles, Borderline crack, Dysfunctional Family, Friends!AU, Gen, Howard's A+ Parenting, Odin's A+ Parenting, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-18
Updated: 2012-07-18
Packaged: 2017-11-10 06:06:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/463046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pprfaith/pseuds/pprfaith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone said 'Friends!AU'. This is the self-indulgent mess that happened next.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tony Stark's Collectibles

**Author's Note:**

> I have neither excuses nor regrets.
> 
> If you like it, give me a prompt and I might write it.

+

In which Steve gets… collected.

+

Steve has been making portraits of people in Central Park for almost six months to help finance his New York shoebox of an apartment when he meets Tony Stark for the first time.

He likes the job. He’s out in the open in one of the greenest places he’s seen in his life and he gets to be around people, watch them, talk to them. It sucks when the weather’s bad and when people come to harass him rather than have their portrait done in fifteen minutes, but hey, that’s just New York for you. 

That fact that it keeps him from becoming homeless is also a big factor in favor of the job. No, really.

So he paints people, watercolors mostly, because even though they’re far from his favorite medium, he’s decent with them and people like it. Sketches always seem cheap to people and something like oil colors takes far too much time. And it’s expensive, too. 

So watercolors it is. 

He has his easel set up in a quiet part of the park, across from a bench where his customers can sit, a bag with his tools and a few silly props at his feet. It’s a cloudy day today and he’s working on notes for a paper, notebook propped up half against the easel, half in his lap. When he looks up, trying to formulate a thought in a way that will make sense to him later, there’s a man sitting on the bench, munching on a sandwich, watching him with an amused curiosity. 

Steve’s first thought is, _great, another asshole_. His second is, _hold on, is that…_

It is. Tony Stark, the richest man on earth, the favorite of all tabloids, the genius everyone loves to hate, is sitting on the bench Steve has come to think of as his, chewing on his lunch. 

Uhm.

If New York had royalty, Mr. Stark would be the uncontested king of all. As it is, he comes pretty damn close. His suit probably cost more than Steve’s year’s rent. Scratch that, it definitely cost more. 

“Well,” Mr. Stark asks and Steve jolts. “Are you going to paint me, or is that sign only meant to confuse people?”

Steve blinks and looks around. He’s not sure for what. A hidden camera, maybe. All he finds in a neatly dressed man in his thirties, sitting several benches away, watching them. Bodyguard or assassin, Steve wonders, but chooses to ignore him in order to turn to his… customer?

“It’s real,” he finally manages to answer. And then he actually says, “Uhm.”

Mr. Stark sighs, swallows the last of his sandwich and licks his fingers. There’s a chance Steve goes slightly cross-eyed. 

“Look, kid, I’ve had a shitty day and a walk in the park seemed like the thing to do. Now do you want to earn yourself a horrendously high tip, or don’t you?” He squints at Steve. “You look like you could use a real dinner.”

Steve turns scarlet and hates himself for it, scowls. “I can feed myself just fine without magnanimous charity I didn’t ask for, thank you very much.”

Paradoxically, instead of siccing his bodyguard slash assassin on him, Mr. Stark smiles. “Good,” he observes. “You do have a spine.”

Then he leans back, folds his hands behind his head and smirks. He’s waiting, Steve realizes and finds himself snorting. He doesn’t typically follow the tabloids’ documentation of Mr. Stark’s insane life, but he has heard enough to form an opinion anyway, even though he didn’t know that until right now. 

He thought of the man as arrogant, petty, callous and heartless. He expected the man’s candidness, but not that he’d laugh when Steve gave him lip. Interesting, he thinks, reprimanding himself mentally for being judgmental, something he hates in other people. 

So maybe he’s making amends to himself when he nods and says, “Okay. Move a bit to the left, please?”

+

Mr. Stark – call me Tony, as if Steve _could_ without swallowing his tongue – returns three weeks later. He’s munching on a greasy burger, heedless of the stains he’s leaving on his silk tie, and sits himself down across from Steve like he owns the bench. 

He probably does, come to think of it. 

“Did you lose your portrait?” Steve asks before he can stop himself because, well, he doesn’t exactly get repeat customers. No-one else he’s ever painted is narcissistic enough to come back for seconds. 

Mr. Stark shrugs, leers, says, “Maybe I just like the scenery.”

Steve does not blush. Does not. Does not…

He does. Vividly. 

The only escape is to duck his head and start working.

+

The third time, Mr. Stark brings lunch for two, drops one of the boxes in Steve’s lap and says, “So. Was your week as shitty as mine?”

Steve, who heard something about a stock market disaster on the radio earlier in the day, shakes his head. “Probably not. What happened?”

Mr. Stark seems inordinately pleased with the fact that Steve asks instead of assuming. By the end of a thirty-minute rant including a lot of grand gesturing and flinging bits of his chicken wrap around, Steve actually calls him Tony. Mostly because there is no way he can refer by last name to anyone he’s seen with bits of their own lunch in their hair from waving their arms around too much.

+

The fourth time Tony drops by Steve’s little corner of the world Steve starts fearing that Tony is… courting him, or something. 

It makes him uncomfortable and shifty-eyed for the entire visit, which lasts exactly thirteen minutes, at the end of which, Tony ruffles Steve’s hair, bends down and says, very lowly, “Calm down, kid. I just like you.”

+

Two months later Tony’s visits have become an almost weekly thing and yes, the guy on the bench a ways down actually is his bodyguard. His name is Mr. Coulson and he smiles thinly and scares Steve a bit when Tony introduces them. 

They talk about anything that comes to mind and even though Steve hesitates to call it that, he’s pretty sure that makes them friends. It’s ridiculous, really, but he’s been lonely since he broke up with Peggy and Bucky signed up to go to war.

Steve considered following him, for a few weeks. Would have in an instant, against someone like the Nazis. That would have been just, would have been necessary. But there is nothing just about the war America is currently fighting. Necessity, yes, but not justice. 

So he stayed in New York, studying art, alone. 

Tony helps with the latter. 

Then, one day, when Steve tells him about his shitty apartment being roach infested _again_ \- third time this month, and it’s not like they’re ever really gone in-between – Tony says, “I might have a solution for that.”

And drags him out of the park. 

Steve barely has time to grab his things before Tony drags him along by the strap of his messenger bag. Mr. Coulson catches up with them on the way to… a car, presumably, asking, “Mr. Stark, where are we going?”

Tony waves him off. “Steve needs a new apartment.”

Steve tries to say that no, he doesn’t, he can barely afford what he has and he’s already eating ramen five days out of seven, but Mr. Coulson doesn’t let him. “Collecting strays again, Mr. Stark?”

Steve balks enough at that to force them all to stop and Tony rolls his eyes, drawls, “Don’t be an asshole, Phil.”

Mr. Coulson – Phil? – snorts. “Really, Tony?”

“Yes, really,” Tony decides, grabbing Steve again, who balks again, digging in his heels.

“Where are we going?” he demands, ignoring the fact that Tony and his bodyguard are suddenly bickering like they’re married.

Tony rolls his eyes – he does that a lot – and shrugs. “I own a building. It’s got a few empty apartments. We’re going to look at one of them.”

Coulson rolls his eyes right back. “Repeat after me: You cannot run people’s lives for them.”

Tony shrugs, flashes an enormous and very fake smile. “I’ve been doing it to you for thirty years and you’ve yet to complain.”

Uhm. 

“I complain,” Coulson corrects. “You just never listen.”

Tony huffs and finally, finally, turns back to Steve. “Look, it’s a nice apartment in a crappy part of town with dirt-cheap rent. If you want the place, it’s yours, so at least _look_ at it, okay?”

Since he still has a pretty solid grip on Steve’s bag strap, there really isn’t much choice but to say, “Alright. I’ll look. _Look_.”

They start moving again and Coulson slams his palm into Steve’s shoulder in a bad imitation of a backslap and offers, “You’re done for now, kid.”

He’s probably right.

+

The house is an old apartment building with six floors and a brick façade. The ground floor is mostly taken up by a café simply called _Jane’s_. They’re in one of the worse parts of town, just like Tony said. It has the usual flat roof, a fire escape running up one side. Nothing special at all. 

Steve almost relaxes until they step into the foyer of the house and are met with a security door that demands a code and a thumb print before it will open. 

Tony and Coulson – Phil, whatever – both move around the place like they know it, which is confirmed when they run into a guy around their age on the first floor. He’s dark-haired and stocky, wearing reading glasses and typing away on his phone distractedly. 

He notices them only when he’s about to bump into them and then looks up, startled, before recognizing them. “Guys,” he greets. Seemingly unfazed by running head first into his landlord, who happens to be directly related to god. Or something.

“Bruce,” Tony grins. “Just the man I was looking for. Tell my friend Steve here that the apartment next to yours is perfect for him.”

Bruce, newly identified, looks Steve up and down with a fatalistic sort of expression on his face and then repeats, very deadpan, “The apartment next to mine is perfect for you.” 

Then he waves and shoves past them. “Need to go to the lab,” he explains half-heartedly, but it seems to be enough for everyone but Steve.

Tony smirks, orders, “Kiss the lovely Betty for me, will you?”

Bruce flips him off with a finger over one shoulder. 

“See you later!” Tony hollers after him before leading them on.

There are three doors on the first floor landing, one of which, apparently, belongs to Bruce, who works in a lab and has, presumably, a girlfriend by the name of Betty. 

Tony stops before the second one, punching in another door code. It looks simple, like a default code, but what does Steve know. 

The apartment is huge. And beautiful. And huge. And expensively renovated, since the interior is a lot newer than the outside. And it’s huge. And it has great light and a kitchen and bathroom fully installed, eco friendly heating and it’s huge. Living room, kitchen, bathroom where you can actually shower without climbing over the toilet tank first, and two bedrooms. He could turn one of them into a studio for his art. He could paint there, late in the day, because it has west facing windows and actual _sunlight_ which is not an easy thing to find in New York City. 

Steve falls in love the second he sees the place.

Steve could never afford it, not in a million years, not if he sold his liver _and_ his kidneys. Not if he still had Peggy or even Bucky to move in with him. Not. Ever.

“I take it you like it?” Tony asks and Steve makes a serious effort at picking his jaw up off the floor.

Phil has disappeared somewhere, because apparently, he lives here. Tony waved him away with one hand and a friendly insult and then went back to watching Steve gawk like a peasant, which, in hindsight, not his best moment.

He makes a face that he thinks properly conveys, _I would sell my future children and my soul for this apartment but I wouldn’t be able to afford it anyway._ Also, _duh_. 

Tony smirks because he sort of always does that and names a price that is absolutely ridiculous and actually takes Steve a moment to compute. “You’re joking,” he says, feeling himself get angry.

He’s never needed charity before and he’s not going to start taking it now. Tony either senses the impending storm or is just very quick, because his hands go up immediately, look, not dangerous.

Steve grinds his teeth hard enough to make his jaw hurt because he is _not_ a stray, he is not friends with Tony because of his money, he didn’t tell him about the roaches because he wants _help_. He was just venting. 

“I own this building. Obviously.” Yes. Because owning buildings is perfectly normal in Tony’s world. How nice. Steve grinds his teeth harder.

“Would you listen,” Tony requests, a bit sharper. 

After a moment of tense consideration, Steve nods, motions for him to go ahead. 

“I own the building. But I moved in here before I did. When I was in my early twenties and my dad got sick – you caught the sob story somewhere, yeah?”

At Steve’s nod, he continues. “My dad got sick and… grew meaner than he was before. So I found the shittiest apartment there was in New York State and moved into it, because I knew he’d hate it. Of course, Howard Stark doesn’t take things lying down, so he talked to his buddy the mayor, who pulled a few strings and suddenly, the building was to be condemned. So I bought it, remodeled the top two floors and moved in for real. Dear old dad returned fire by congratulating me on my great investment.”

Tony shrugs, self-consciously in a way Steve didn’t know he could be. Neither of them has ever mentioned family before. And while the chosen battlefield between father and son sounds absolutely insane to Steve, he understands the story behind it. Bucky’s father was a bit like that, always pushing Bucky, always prodding him.

“I remodeled the whole building, top to bottom and I didn’t raise the rent one. Single. Cent. The old man hated it. He hated charity, hated giving things to people who wouldn’t get off their asses and get them themselves.”

He shrugs again, shakes his head. “I still live here today and by now, everyone else who lives here is a friend. Some of them were there when I moved in, some came later. I’m not being charitable, Steve. Consider it a favor to me, moving in here. It would cause my old man great displeasure to have an ‘artsy-type’ munching off his family’s money.”

The way he looks, half pained, half laughing, tells Steve that yes, Tony is serious. He’s… he’s pissing on his father’s grave with every new tenant. Also, Tony just called Steve a friend. Tony is willing to share living space with Steve.

Steve doesn’t want to get hung up on that, but he does anyway.

“And if it helps, the rent I charge and the rent I could charge for this place? For me it’s all peanuts. It mostly goes into the upkeep of the house anyway. So?”

Uhm.

Seriously, what is a man supposed to say to that? Aside from, _you’re clinically insane, did you know?_

+

“Everyone,” Tony booms, “I’d ask how you keep getting access to my _private_ rooftop terrace, but it’s a lost cause, so meet Steve. He’s moving in across from Bruce.”

At Tony’s nudging, Steve waves, not really computing much because it’s been approximately two minutes since Steve said, yes, probably, he’d move in. Since then he’s been dragged up several flights of stairs and through a truly impressive penthouse apartment that looks like something out of the future and is, apparently, Tony’s place. 

He’s pretty sure the wall talked to Tony when they entered. It told them he has guests.

The ‘guests’ turn out to be an eclectic cluster of people sprawled all over the rooftop terrace, all with drinks in their hand, talking loudly. The only one Steve recognizes is Phil, who is suddenly wearing a polo shirt and shorts instead of his suit, and holding a beer in one hand.

A girl with curly hair suddenly bounces up to them, handing them both beers and kissing Tony on the cheek. She beams at Steve and then asks, “So, are you the Central Park stray?”

Tony makes an indignant noise around the neck of his bottle before Steve can. “He is not a stray!” he defends.

The girl waves him off. “We’re all strays, Tony. Woof.”

Then she grabs Steve by his bag strap – what is it with these people doing that – and drags him forward. “I’m Darcy, by the way. Darcy Lewis. Have I seen you around campus?”

Dazed, Steve nods, somewhat impressed by the fact that the girl’s actually moving him. She looks pretty dainty, but she’s dragging him around like a disobedient puppy.

“Great! I’m a pol sci major. This semester. You’re art, right? I used to do art history. But it got boring, so…” She shrugs, points her bottle at two guys in messed up suits. Their ties are undone, their shirts halfway unbuttoned, their jackets lost somewhere. One of them has a blond ponytail, the other a darker crew cut. They look like they’re in their late twenties, maybe early thirties. Older than Steve’s twenty-five and definitely older than Darcy. Both of them grin like they’re the happiest people on earth.

“That’s Clint and Thor,” Darcy offers, pointing at them in turn. “They look like fratboys, but they’re actually lawyers, what do you know. Thor’s from old money, Clint’s from old clothes. They have been living in epic bromance since college, say hi.”

Obediently, all three men say hi, even though Clint is scowling at Darcy for the old clothes comment. Thor’s smile just gets wider as he grabs Steve’s hand and almost breaks it under the guise of shaking it. “Welcome,” he booms, “To our humble abode!”

Steve blinks. Clint inserts his upper body between them and says, “Yes, he is for real.”

Then he casually digs two fingers into the inside of Thor’s wrist, forcing him to let go of Steve, who draws back his stump as fast as he can. “We’re up on second, by the way, next to this little thing and her roomie.” He points at Darcy, who puffs up a bit as being called little.

“Whatever,” she decides.

And off they go again.

She pulls him over to where Phil is sitting next to an imposing black man with an eye patch. “You’ve probably met Phil, right?” Darcy asks, plopping herself down in his lap without a care. He scowls, put-upon, but doesn’t make her move. 

Steve nods.

“And this is Nick Fury. They’ve been Tony’s bodyguards since, like, forever. And they’ve got this wicked awesome consulting firm that I interned at last year and they can kill you thirty-seven ways without breaking a sweat. Cool, huh?”

Uhm. “Totally,” Steve agrees. Phil smiles mildly and Nick scowls. Somehow Steve has the feeling it’s more of a default expression than actual anger. “Anyway,” Darcy goes on, “they’re the geezers here. Tony’s almost as old as them, then the lawyer boys, and then the nubile and young rest of us. Oh, and Bruce. He’s not here. You’ll have to meet him later.”

“I met him,” Steve offers, shrugging. “he was on his way to… a lab?”

“Physicist,” Nick says, spitting the words like they’re an insult. Darcy seems summarily unimpressed, so Steve decides to follow suit. “Another genius who can’t keep himself alive.”

“Hey!” Tony protests from the other side of the terrace, where he’s talking animatedly to a redheaded girl about Darcy’s age. “I resent that!”

They ignore him and Darcy stands and on they go, leading him over to where a black-haired guy around Steve’s age is lying flat on his back on the ground, staring at the clouds. Occasionally, he lifts both hands, mimes a frame and squints through it at the sky. Darcy kicks him in the side none too gently. “Meet our resident parasite,” she offers, kicking him again. 

He flips her off and catches her foot on the next attack, pulling until she lands next to him, ass over teakettle, with a truly impressive scream. She smacks him on the side of his face, which makes him glower with impressively green eyes. 

“You and Loki here should get on great,” she says, “You’re both art, right? Loki’s a photographer and Thor’s brother. He more or less lives on his and Clint’s couch.”

“I do not,” Loki the photographer finally speaks, sounding dangerous. _Everyone_ on this rooftop sounds dangerous. Except Darcy. And even she looks like she can be mean.

Then Loki turns his head to squint up at Steve. And what’s up with the names anyway, Steve wonders. Thor and Loki? Really? Did their parents _want_ to breed hate in their sons from an early age? “Well, at least he’s hot,” he observes. 

Steve blushes.

“Restrain yourself, brother,” Thor commands, not sounding entirely amused. “You can break hearts outside this family.”

“Fuck you, Thor!” Loki hollers right back.

Darcy smacks him again, but he just holds onto her leg tighter with a grin and she huffs, points toward Tony and his companion. “Since I’m not allowed to get up, that’s my roomie over there. Her name’s Tasha, she’s pol sci, too, and from Russia. She’s also going to take over the world one day, so better make nice with her. She and Tony like to gossip like the bitches they are, in Russian because no-one else speaks it and they like it when the boys all get paranoid about it. Go on,” she flaps both hands, “You have to move on without me. I’m lost!”

She strikes a dramatic pose and then lets herself flop onto the deck like a dead fish. Steve doesn’t know whether to laugh or run screaming. Loki just starts tickling up her calf until she’s moving again, trying to squirm away.

Steve flees. In a very dignified manner, thank you very much. 

Tony and Tasha are, indeed, talking in Russian. Tasha’s fiery red hair is in pigtails that make her look cute from a distance. From close up she looks, what a surprise, dangerous. Cool gaze, sharp features, not half as sweet as she pretends to be. She reminds him of Peggy.

Enough so that his heart gives a little lurch and he probably turns a bit green because, Peggy. Steve was planning on keeping Peggy. Marrying her. Bucky laughed at him all the time and lent him money for a ring and then – 

Life happened, he guesses. It’s the best explanation for the abrupt end to one of the best things in his life. Before he can sink too deep, Tasha turns to study him with sharp, blue eyes and says, “I know you.”

He frowns, trying frantically to place her. 

“You did that painting,” she goes on, “the one that hangs in the humanities building on campus. _American Dream_.”

He nods, rubs his neck, because, yeah, he did. It’s a monster of a thing, filling most of the wall it’s been allotted and he even got a little article in the newspaper for it. It’s his most ‘famous’ work, to date. 

Suddenly Tasha stops frowning seriously at him and beams instead, bright and open. It’s a bit scary. “I like the monkey on the unicycle.”

Tony, who started looking a bit shifty-eyed when Tasha mentioned the title of the painting, relaxes and breaks into a grin. “Monkeys? American Dream with monkeys? Really?”

Shrugging, Steve offers, “My best friend had just enlisted. I wasn’t feeling too optimistic about the whole war thing. It shows.”

“Sorry to hear that. I liked it better when I thought it was an intentional mockery of highly overestimated and nonexistent American values.” Tasha declares and yeah, Steve can see how she’s probably going to take the world over one day. She looks vicious in her disappointment and criticism. 

Tony, standing beside her, waves her off. “Don’t mind Tasha. She’s the disillusioned child of Russian immigrants with nothing to their name but vodka.”

She points a perfectly manicured finger in his face. “Prejudice,” she snaps.

“Ditto,” Tony shoots back, looking unreasonably smug. 

Tasha is too controlled to huff, but she bites something in Russian that makes Tony break out in roaring laughter. As she stalks away to sit with Loki and Darcy.

Tony catches himself soon enough and turns back to Steve with a shrug that says, _what can you do?_

“So. You staying?”

For a moment Steve thinks Tony is hitting on him, but then he remembers that there’s the apartment and, right. Moving in. He shouldn’t say yes. It _is_ charity and he doesn’t care which way Tony spins it. But. The apartment is an artist’s dream and the people…

Steve’s fingers are itching for the coal in his bag, for the new sketchpad he splurged on yesterday. He can’t wait to draw them, to try and capture their strange sense of humor, their utter brilliance on paper. 

Sure, they’re insane.

But Steve is an artist and he has an eye for these things. They’re beautiful, too. 

He’s been lonely for so long, first abandoned by his best friend, then by his girlfriend. He just… he wants.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m staying.”

“Great,” Tony says. “Because I called my PA earlier and the moving people should get here with your stuff any minute now. I was afraid you weren’t going to say yes before they arrive. Awk-ward!”

Steve nods. And then…, wait. _What?_

“Tony!”

+


End file.
